Anthem
by Swiper. No swiping
Summary: A study on a fox stuck in a trench.


ɯ ə ɥ ʇ u ɐ

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­--like he had some gap in his recent memory, suddenly jarred awake.

In the cockpit. In the Arwing.

He exhaled, vocalizing the sudden stress of the return of consciousness.

It was dark.

He could still see, but the light was very dim. The only source was the screen of the onboard computer. '

He trained one eye on it, unblinking.

"DAMAGE REPORT" it read in red capital letters.

The screen {flickered, waved, warped, played static} for a few moments.

So he had sustained damage. Indubitably. Possibly crashed.

I don't know where I am, he thought.

Pause.

Inhale, exhale.

"Do I know," inhale, exhale, "do I know who I am?" like running some kind of computer diagnostic.

Damage report?

A red bandana winked at him from under his flight-suit.

An uncanny emotion washed over him. Like feeling his pupils dilate.

I'm Fox McCloud, he concluded.

Good.

What is his age?

I'm 16 years old.

Good.

What is today's date?

"The year is 12939 CCY (Cornerian Common Year). This is the cockpit of my ship, the Arwing. I am the leader of a group of mercenaries known as Star Fox."

He looked at his hands.

He flexed one, then the other.

He pinched a loose thread of fur that had been riding on the back of his hand.

He grabbed the steering controls of the ship, pulled back on them. To test his motor skills.

Then thought.

"There is a war," Fox continued, "against Andross Oikonny. Andross Oikonny is the enemy. I have been hired--no, my _team _has been hired by General Pepper to fight in the war against Andross Oikonny because he is the enemy."

So far so good.

He raised his hands to the top of his head. Pressed down in certain areas. Small pains bloomed, here and there, between his ears. His skull a coal mine on fire.

"Andross Oikonny is the enemy," continuing, "he is the _main_ enemy. He has an army. The army of Venom; his army. The army he built. He built the Venomese army."

Doing great there.

No bruises found, no bumps. He must've passed out from the force of the impact itself, but luckily was otherwise intact.

Perhaps too lucky. Perhaps he should start wearing a helmet, just to be safe _next time you incompetent little shit_.

Fox hummed, amused. Only one minute into the waking world and already he was infuriated with himself.

"There will be no next time," he growled quietly to the air in the cockpit, as if it were something he could scold. "This was my first and last failure. There will be no next time."

He felt uncomfortable.

There was a wetness coming from his nose.

He removed one hand from the steering controls and raised a knuckle to his snout.

Wiped at his nostril and brought the finger to eye level.

It was stained dark.

He focused his eye on it, having trouble distinguishing color by the dim light. It was dark red.

It was blood.

"Minor trauma sustained in the nasal region," snuffling blood back into his sinuses. "At least hopefully minor."

He tried tipping his neck backwards, only to be hit with pain. A sharp pain in his neck, like there were knives stuck deep in his medulla oblongata. A strange resistance force.

Every muscle in his back suddenly contracted, tension infecting his body. He cussed behind gritted teeth.

"Well, that's not something I should do again," chastising himself. "Neck probably hurts from impact--from whiplash, to be--"

And then there was fuzz. Post-traumatic fuzz, blocked out everything.

"No."

A sudden numbness.

Ringing in his ears.

"Damn it, no."

His heartbeat increased in tempo.

Started sweating.

The dim light became even too bright for him.

Shut his eyes.

Groped blindly along the side of the cockpit, retreating farther (than he thought possible).

One hand touching a metallic box.

It was cold.

Found the handle on one side.

Lifted the box towards his chest.

Opened his eyes.

Only slits.

(anything wider would hurt too much)

The emergency pack, opened it, found a bottle of liquid and the pain killers.

Squeezed on the bottle cap.

(snap)

Broke it off.

Poured out three pills into his hand.

(on accident should only take two)

Stuffed them in his mouth anyway

(clumsy gonna choke)

Brought the bottle of water

(urgently, faster)

up to his lips.

Drank.

Downed the entire thing.

Swallowed all three pills.

Then he careened forward, dropping the bottle, head finding the groove between his thighs.

"Damn it, damn-it, _damn_it," the mantra of the ill.

And all he heard for minutes was the ringing in his ears.

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Inhale.

Exhale.

Rock forward.

Rock backward.

He rocked forward, rocked backward.

Nothing but buzzing.

"Stop. Make it stop."

Rocked forward, rocked backward.

Inhale.

Exhale.

He tried moaning aloud but he couldn't even hear his own voice very well.

It came out distant

(like an echo).

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He couldn't tell how much time had passed until he could hear his own breathing.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Etcetera.

Like the tide of an inner ocean, giving oxygen to his blood and releasing the carbon dioxide his body produced.

Causing his lungs to {inflate, deflate}, his heart to beat {lub-dub, thud-thud}, the blood cells in his veins to keep {moving, pumping through}, transferring energy to every single part of his body.

The numbness receded, diffused into the air around him.

"The analgesics must have activated," he felt weak, limp. Useless as overcooked noodles.

The psychic pain had deactivated his muscles as well as parts of his brain (he assumed). His better qualities.

Fox wouldn't be able to fly.

Luckily it looked like he wouldn't have to.

The polymethacrylate shield had cracked in two places: one in the upper left of the cockpit, and again in the lower right--two circular spider webs. It appeared to Fox that the damage had been caused by pressure.

The darkness outside had _weight. _It was a tangible darkness.

He reached forward, limply sticking one fist up to hit the shield.

It impacted with a sickening thud, soft like his hand had rotted and would split open. Fox winced. He hit it once more with the same fist, the same reaction occurring.

Where the hell had he crashed?

The vulpine's other hand snaked down to find the door release lever.

Pulled on it, awaiting the response.

Gears all around the Arwing whirred to life, suddenly, attempting to move against the darkness he was buried in. The only thing that gave was an invisible but loud crunch. Then all the gears fell silent.

The silence that followed also had a tangible weight; the exact weight of despair.

He felt his ears droop.

"I will not give in," growling, denying himself. The first mistake could--no, _would _be eradicated this time. He grabbed the lever again with a little more passion.

The gears started again.

The loud crunch came sooner this time, accompanied by a new crack in the windshield--this one larger, running up and down the middle of the glass.

"_DAMN_it," he shouted.

At the windshield.  
Not letting his silence ruminate in thoughts of failure.

Fox stooped forward, catching his head in his hands; his fingers trying to dig themselves into his temples, like they would find some sanctuary there.

"I don't know where I am," panic, "I don't know where I am, I don't know what happened," don't lose your fucking head Fox, okay? "I can't remember anything that happened--how I got here," panic, panic, _panic_, "I don't know the extent of damage on my craft, I don't know how much oxygen I have left," inhale exhale inhale exhale panic panic panic. "I don't know if anyone's coming to look for me--"

Calm down.

Started here: breathe in, breathe out.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

_Right._

Now he would look at the damage report onscreen. The least it could do would be to help him understand the situation.

He shifted, raising his head to match the level of the screen. He noticed his neck no longer hurt; the analgesics had definitely kicked in.

"DAMAGE REPORT" the screen read, in red capital letters.

It kept flickering in and out, or distorting the image, so much that Fox had a hard time reading all the statistics of what was left of his Arwing.

1. The radar was down.

2. The nova bomb delivery system was down.

3. The front engine was down, completely. Possibly blown. Fox wondered if the nose of the Arwing even existed at all, if it was just completely obliterated by impact.

4. The plasma engine was still functioning. Of course. Had it been destroyed the entire Arwing would be gone. Pilots don't live when their plasma tanks get hit, because their plasma tanks are highly flammable and always kept heavily guarded, directly under their asses.

"At least the oxygen tanks," directly connected to the plasma engine, "are functioning. Looks normal."

5. G-diffuser systems down.

"Crap, those things are expensive to replace," already filling the situation with humor. Good. Optimistic.

Meaning there would be a time to replace them. Meaning there would be a future.

Having thought himself into a sepulchral mood he continued reading:

The entire left wing had come off, possibly in battle or in impact. The left wing shooters and brake were also missing, obviously, though the computer felt that it was appropriate to state as being separate damage.

The right wing was only 85% damaged ("only 85 percent?" expressing exasperation at the computer's choice of phrasing); the right wing shooters were stable but the brake had been damaged. It also stood at a minimal aerodynamic angle.

Meaning it had been bent.

Meaning flight would be impossible (not that it would be possible anyway without an engine).

Plasma engine, functional. Computer systems minimally damaged. Would you like to send a distress signal? Y/N

Without a moment's pause Fox touched the 'Y' part of the screen. The visuals warped for a few seconds, causing Fox to wonder if the screen was even functioning.

Then the screen changed yellow, the Star Fox logo emblazoned black across it. Black text underneath read: "Distress signal transmitted."

His entire body sighed in relief.

It was like an assurance. His teammates would surely pick up the signal, _his _signal.

They would come for him.

He would get rescued. He was still able to be rescued.

He was still alive, wherever he was.

Where was he?

"I honestly don't know," he muttered while raising one hand to cradle his aching skull. He didn't remember what he was doing before he woke up, nor where he had been, nor how he got here.

In general, Fox didn't remember much.

"Brain swelling? Temporary amnesia?"

But his cognitive processes were… well, not necessarily 100% ("maybe only 85%," Fox laughed.)

Maybe.

Who is on his side? Who is on Team Star Fox?

"There's Peppy Hare, original member of Star Fox, friends with my father; Falco Lombardi, whom we hired, maybe too cocky for his own good--my own good--flies off the handle too often, so to speak; Slippy Toad, mechanical genius, my friend from Academy, and--"

Pause.

Inhale.

Stared at the flickering yellow screen. He touched it; with his pointer finger he created an imaginary line under the words on the screen. "Distress signal transmitted."

"A totally incompetent pilot."

_And yes, he always felt guilty for thinking _that but it is the truth. There is something about the toad that irks everyone; perhaps his high-pitched voice, perhaps his naïve nature. But neither of those are really his fault. The thing that irks Fox is Slippy's seemingly flippant nature towards piloting.

It's just that Fox doesn't really understand why Slippy wants to pilot exactly. It's dangerous, he can't do it too well; it seems that Slippy has a death wish, or that he's just too obstinate to quit and constantly puts his life in danger for it.

But Slippy just looks so guilty, staring at his shoes. The entire bridge is dark save for the glow of Sector X in the distance; they're in down power mode. This seems like a formal discharge or something, like some kind of military courtroom scene, when in all honestly Fox doesn't want it to be like that. He wouldn't fire Slippy. He would never fire Slippy.

Though sometimes he wonders why, really. (So does everyone else…)

The toad mumbles "I'm" then stops, sighs, "sorry." All to his shoes, not to Fox.

Sorry for what? Sorry for how the mission went? How they lost another Arwing because of his incompetence? How Slippy has been through a total of one for _every _mission that they've been assigned (which comes to a total of two Arwings for two missions but still).

That's a lot of Arwings. And they're very expensive.

Fox sighs, runs one hand through the blonde fringe on his forehead. Shakes his head (or maybe shivers) and says: "Slippy, really. It's really all right. To be honest I'm just really glad that you're safe. Every time you've been shot down I've been really worried. Worried for your health. But somehow you just seem to pull through it barely scathed."

Slippy raises his head and smiles, looking fresh, looking hopeful.

Which is good, because (while it might be a delusion on Fox's part, or a trick of the light) it would appear that there are tears pooled at the front of the toad's eyes. Armed and ready.

For some reason Fox can't bear to look at him while he says what he's going to say and looks at the wall of the bridge instead, harrumphing slightly not for his own benefit.

"But."

But. Start with but.

"I can't help but think you might want to reconsider, well," he stops speaking when he hears a soft "thud" from Slippy's direction. The toad has fallen on his knees.

"No, Fox, please," the toad is begging (really? why is he begging? there's really no need for that).

"Don't fire me. Please. I promise you," he keeps at it, "I promise you I can change. I promise you I will fight better. Please, just give me another chance. One more chance."

"Slippy--"

"I've just been really nervous," blathering, "when I get inside an Arwing and start flying, my mind goes blank, I seize up, but you and I both know that I'm not really that bad, not as bad as my performance has been so far. You know I can do better."

Fox feels uncomfortable. He keeps staring at the wall. "Slippy, I'm not going to fire you. I just want to know if you'd rather not fly. I'll offer this to you: would you rather stay onboard and solely be the ship's mechanic?"

Slippy snuffles. Fox isn't looking at him but he wonders if the toad is crying.

"Wh-what do you mean?" the toad sounds very miserable. Miserable for himself.

"Well, what I mean is," maybe Fox should tell him. How Fox isn't willing to risk any more ships. How Fox isn't willing to pay an arm and a leg every time the toad makes a mistake. "You could just stay on the Great Fox and have that be your responsibility, too. I have R.O.B. set up to send alerts to us through the comm. link--"

"No," Slippy shouts.

Interrupting Fox.

Fox blinks.

"Fox, I want to help you," the toad hides his mouth behind one of his hands, like he's just revealed a secret by accident. "I want to help you. I don't want to be dead weight. I want to support you. I want to _fly_." ]

Fox blinks again. "It's not that you're useless, Slippy," (though that is exactly how he has been making it sound), "it's just that I thought you might _want _to do something else instead. I didn't think you liked flying."

"Since I fuck every mission up?" the toad's voice cracks.

"Since you act detrimentally nervous when we're out there," Fox corrects him.

"No, Fox, I like flying," Slippy moves his hand to reveal he is smiling, "that's not it. I like flying. I'm not the best of pilots, definitely not on the same level as you, or Falco, or even Peppy. But I want to _learn_. I want to learn how to do what you do, as well as you. You're my hero."

And he says: "Fox, you are my hero. Really. I remember just how many times you went out of your way to defend me, when we were at Academy," pauses, he chokes on the words, "all those other kids would call me names. Nasty things. And you stepped in and defended me. And I knew from then on I really wanted to be your friend. I wanted to be worth something to you. I wanted to be able to prove myself to you. I wanted to be like you; I still do."

And he says: "I feel safe knowing you're on our side, Fox. I can't even comprehend how fast Andross is going to lose now that you're in the game. I know you're going to be a big hero someday."

Fox smiles. He sighs through his nose, short and sharp.

"Of course you can stay on the front if you want to, Slippy," but something's going to have to change, "if you can promise me one thing--"

The memory works in reverse:

"Of course you can stay on the front if you want to Slippy if you can promise me one thing--"

"I know you're going to be _a big hero someday_

_Andross Oikonny is the enemy_

_Big war hero at your age_

_I feel safe knowing that you're on our side Fox_

_I know you're going to be a big hero someday_

Fox felt his stomach growl at him, disobedient. He patted it with one hand and frowned.

Also in the emergency pack were three [3] packets of crackers, one [1] dehydrated steak (well that's what it was marketed as anyway even though in reality it was just flavored protein powder), two [2] more bottles of super-hydrating water, two [2] packets of pain killers in pill form, one [1] roll of bandages, five [5] adhesive medical strips--

Fox smirked.

One [1] small book containing nude pictures of women and three [3] condoms (ha, haha)--

And one [1] cyanide pill.

Fox picked up one of the packets of crackers. He knew they would be stale. When was the last time he had even _thought _about the emergency pack, much less changed the contents out for fresher ones.

He ripped the wrapper open and sniffed. They were stale. They would taste bad.

He stuffed the four crackers in his mouth faster than he imagined. They were gone before he could blink, practically.

"So good," he thought, feeling the dry wheat crackle in his mouth, releasing some kind of juice, salty, mixed in with his saliva running down his throat.

It was good because he was hungry. He was so hungry he could practically eat the entire contents of the emergency pack--including the band-aids and the porno--but he restrained himself. He would have to conserve.

"Besides: there will be plenty more for me to eat back on the Great Fox," to himself.

More like a giant sandwich. He could go for a giant sandwich right now; one of Slippy's famous creations with whatever sauces they kept in the onboard fridge--whatever the name was. Something exotic.

But for now, he had crackers. And protein powder. And that was something, and something was better than nothing.

Anything was better than nothing.

Right now he could care less if Star Wolf themselves picked up his distress signal.

Anything just to get out of this stupid box.

He hit the ceiling with his fist, once.

Then again.

Then again and again and again, rhythmic, beating, knocking, pounding.

"Yo, Leon, you up there?" he called, laughing at himself, laughing at his behavior.

"Leon? Pigma? Wolf O'Donnell? Anyone? I'm a sitting duck. I have no weapons. I'm practically begging to be captured right now. I really don't even care. Come get me you _fuckers_!"

His laughing became more desperate. It sounded harsh, like barking.

Fox stopped, quickly trying to erase the dark thoughts from his mind. He stretched his legs accidentally knocking the open emergency pack onto the floor. The food and water and porno and medical devices fell onto the air brake and stayed there, displaced.

Hm.

Grumbling, he leaned forward and picked up the emergency pack, setting it upright in his lap.

The cyanide pill winked at him.

He shut the box and tossed it to the back of the ship.

"I really ought to try and entertain myself somehow before I go crazy from boredom," but immediately wondered what he could do. There were no games on his ship, not even military training simulators. He had no one else to pass the time by beating up through some masculine game/bonding ritual. He only had himself.

He closed his eyes, envisioning something.

"Okay so a guy walks into a bar and sits at the bar and asks--no wait, he looks up and he sees giant pieces of meat nailed to the ceiling and so he asks the bartender: 'Hey what's the meat on the ceiling for?' And the bartender says: 'It's a game, see. Everybody gets a dart and with the dart they have to hit the pieces of meat on the ceiling and they win a free drink. You want to try it?' and the bartender hands the guy a dart and the guy looks at the dart (which is very small) and looks at the piece of meat on the ceiling and says:'

Fox noticed that he had been drooling.

"--Okay," slurping, gasping, "never mind. That won't work."

He sighed, trying not to open his eyes. Trying not to resurface.

"They taught us, in academy, to do arithmetic in our head. Strategic, they said, for if and when you are being tortured. So that you won't focus on the torture. So that you can remove yourself from the torture. So that you won't give away important information."

He smiled to himself.

"Okay, let's pretend you are being tortured."

And for a moment he was transported to some dark dungeon, hidden away in the base of an enemy fortress somewhere, location undisclosed.

"It's not really that different, not so different than where I am now," he yawned. It was amusing to think about. It was similar because he was in pain, he was stuck in a cramped space, no doubt was suffering from claustrophobia. Suffering from loneliness.

So, Fox, let's do math.

Start with your squares.

**1 x 1 = 1**

One for the number of people he has to defeat to end the war.

(_Andross_)

**2 x 2 = 4**

Four for the number of people on Team Star Fox.

**3 x 3 = 9**

Nine for the number of people he knows are still alive.

Falco, Slippy, Peppy, General Pepper, _Wolf O'Donnell, Leon Powalski, Andrew, Andross, __**Pigma**__--_

His hand balled up into a fist by instinct and hit his knee.

Let's move on.

**4 x 4 = 16**

Sixteen for how many years he's been alive.

_Fox is only sixteen years old. _Finished only two-thirds of adolescence, barely into puberty, not even a full-grown man.

Yet, here he is on the front lines of a galactic war.

This is abnormal.

He is a child soldier.

He should not be here.

He's abnormal. He's out of place.

Doesn't he get stories about what is normal behavior for his age from Falco?

Falco is twenty (he thinks). Falco is normal (he thinks).

Falco is experienced. Falco is barely beginning his life as an adult. Falco is at the very base of the mountain of adulthood.

Sitting on the couch, sneaking a beer behind Peppy's back. Falco is shirtless; bare-chested, as he usually spends his leisure time. Fox has removed his jacket, but that's it; in his shirt and bandana, as Fox usually spends his leisure time. He adjusts the bandana from time to time, feeling uncomfortable at being around Falco when he's shirtless. He tries not to stare too much.

"I've been feeling sort of deprived lately," the avian grumbles, slouching in his seat. "We've been cooped up here for who knows how long, and I've been trying really hard not to let it get to me but I could really _really _use some pussy right about now."

He looks up at Fox and says: "I'm kind of tired of spanking the wank in the showers."

"Yeah, thanks for sharing," Fox takes another sip of his beer to wash the disgust from his face. "Remind me to never use the stall you shower in. Ever."

"What," Falco grins and shoves Fox slightly, "c'mon, I know you do it too."  
Fox's ears droop. He feels slightly embarrassed. He looks at the fridge on the far side of the room.

"Okay, I confess: yeah, I do masturbate once in a while," Falco makes an "a-ha" noise, "but I do it in the privacy of my own room, Falco, and not in the public showers. That's sick."

"No, it's not," Falco takes another swig from his brown bottle, "because in the shower it gets cleaned after I finish, you know. You, on the other hand, just end up making a mess in your underpants."

Fox glares at the fridge. "Other people use the showers. No one else wears my underpants."  
The avian cracks his back, releasing tension. "Really? Because I'm sure that your own little hussy at home wants to wear them when she feels lonely or some shit, but she looks at a pair of boxers and looks at how you've soiled them with the _unidentifiable stain running down the right leg _and she shrieks in horror, drops the pair of boxers and scrambles backwards, going to scrub the skin off her hands with bleach and steel wool. Am I right or am I right?"

The idea makes Fox cringe to himself, but for a different reason.

Which Falco picks up on. "You don't have a girlfriend?"

The question is unwelcomingly invasive.

Fox blinks. Falco could've worded it more politely.

"I mean," the bird shrugs, "I don't have one either. I just," he pauses, not sure where he's going.

"Why don't you have one," Fox doesn't so much as ask as say. Watching Falco's expression. His eyes are hurt, or sad, or sentimental, or something. He's hard to read.

"Why don't _I_ have a girlfriend?" his face suddenly shines, amused. "The lifestyle I used to lead made it easier to go for the quick hook-ups instead. That's all. You're a sweet kid, though," and he pauses to shift his body slightly so he can drink more beer.

Fox quickly glances at a nipple and averts his eyes.

It moved. How could he have _not _seen it. It was hard _not _to look at it.

He feels slightly ashamed.

"…so I figured you'd be able to commit yourself to one girl for a good period of time. And make her happy throughout. You seem like that kind of guy to me."

"I've never had a girlfriend," Fox's voice surprises him. It sounds blank.

Falco takes a small lunge forward with his head, as if he were about to projectile spit. In shock. Fox backs away from him defensively. Such is the gravitational dilation of honesty.

"Never, ever?" Falco asks, eyes wide open in shock. Fox just shakes his head 'no'.

"Never even gone out on a date?" Fox just shakes his head 'no'.

"Never even gotten _laid_?" Fox shakes his head 'no'.

"Have you even kissed a girl?" Fox shakes his head 'no'.

"Geez," the avian blinks. Suddenly the air in the room feels awkward. Stifling. "That's--that's harsh. You didn't find any girls you liked when you were in school?"

"No. That wasn't it. I had plenty of girls who I liked _like that_," sure Fox did. Maybe. "There just wasn't enough time to keep up with my studies and go on dates at thee same time. Hell, I barely even made any friends with other students. I just had to keep working. I had to graduate early to help Peppy. It was all right, though," is it? "once I win the war I'll have time to work on other things."

"Damn, man, that _is _harsh," Falco sounds like he's drunk now. "When I was your age--sixteen, right?--that was all I was doing. Girls, girls, girls. Sometimes three at a time."

"Again, thanks for sharing." The topic of sex still makes Fox uncomfortable. Like it is advantageous to keep modesty and innocence when you're at war. Child soldier. "And thanks for picking off a lot of women out there. I won't even stand a chance."

Falco scoffs. "Naw," he heaves slightly, laughs slow, "some young sex kitten'll probably be all over you after the war's over. Big war hero at your age, right? Girls'll like that. And they'll think you're a 'sweety' I'm sure. Honor, glory, and the promise of forever--girls dig that. Trust me."

Fox feels like he's tasted something bitter. "Why do we always have to talk about sex, anyway?"

"What would you rather talk about?"

The memory works in reverse as well:

"Why do we always have to talk about sex anyway?"

"Trust me girls dig that honor glory and the promise of forever and they'll think you're a sweety girls'll like that _Big war hero at your age, right?_

_I know you'll be a big hero someday. _

_Andross Oikonny is the enemy._

_Big war hero at your age,_

_big hero some day just like your father_

_And now he's fourteen _and he's at Academy and he's sharing a dorm room with Bill Grey.

(Bill Grey who is now leader of the Husky Squad)

Bill is a couple of years older than Fox. Bill is seventeen, constantly hiding behind a façade of aviator sunglasses and a self-assured smile. Fox is shy and doesn't speak much. Fox sits at his desk (_their _desk, really), slumped over a textbook, studying it intently.

Bill stands with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Fox knows that Bill's hands are stuffed in his pockets. Fox knows even though he can't see Bill. And Bill is probably grinning. He's always grinning. Fox knows Bill well enough to know he is grinning.

"Hitting the books pretty hard there, aren't ya?" the canine asks.

Fox raises his ears, turns his head slightly over his shoulder. To appear less threatening.

Bill _is _grinning and has his hands stuffed in his pockets. All very informal, all very non-imposing.

"There's a paper due tomorrow," Fox explains, "and I'm only about 85% done with it right now. What's up?"

"Not much," Bill shuffles his feet for no reason. "I just wanted to check and see how you were doing."

"Oh, uh, thanks," Fox turns back to his work. "I was going to take a break in like--half-an-hour or so."

Bill leans forward, reaches around Fox and picks up a tennis ball. Fox smirks, to himself and to the textbook. Fox writes some notes out on a pad of paper. Bill takes the tennis ball and walks towards  stage left, where his bed is. Bill lies down on his bed.

Fox continues working. The air is filled with the noise of pen on paper scratches. Bill bounces the tennis ball off the ceiling, catches it, throws it up towards the ceiling again, rhythmic, beating, knocking, pounding like a heartbeat. Fox jumps with every thud. Bill's habits are distracting him.

Bill says: "I guess," beat, "I guess I'd better start packing soon. Don't want to wait too late."

Fox lets the pen hover above the paper in his notebook. He turns towards Bill on stage left, the audience can only see half of his face, illuminated by the desk lamp.

"Packing for what?" he asks.

Bill tosses the tennis ball up towards the ceiling again, catches it when it comes back down, stops.

"Dude," beat, Bill lets go of the ball to scratch his forehead. "It's nearly autumn break. How could you forget? It starts on Saturday."

Fox's eyes go wild. "Really, already?"

"The entire freshman class has been raving about it for weeks now," the canine blinks. "Has it honestly slipped your mind?"

"I've really been concentrating on my homework. Man," Fox excuses weakly, still working. No, he knew. He really did. He hasn't been really concentrating on his homework enough to forget about it. This is just because he doesn't want to think about--

"You can come to my place," Bill interrupts suddenly; Fox drops his pen on his pad by accident. "I mean, if you want to. If you don't have anywhere better to go, I mean--" he stops.

Bill knows. Bill knows about Fox.

Fox stares at Bill, unblinking. And he feels like he is about to burst into tears.

"My family would be happy to have you over," Bill explains, getting up from his bed. And he puts the tennis ball back on the desk, reaches under his bed. The audience can't see what he's getting. Fox watches him lift a suitcase out from underneath the bed and set it upright on the floor.

"My father," beat, Bill blinks, "my father wants to meet you. He was excited to hear that you were my roommate. He was a big fan of your--" another beat, "um. You know--"

Bill trails off because Fox has practically curled up into a fetal position, his arms around his legs and his head tucked into his knees.

"Hey," Bill is suddenly demanding of Fox, placing one hand on the kit's shoulder, "why don't we get you something to eat? Take your break right now. We'll talk more once you've had some food."

Fox nods, still resting his head on his knees.

Bill smiles. "You'll feel better with something in you, I know you will. You've been working very _hard and I'm proud of you--_"

Like a replacement for the very thing Fox lacks.

_I'm proud of you. _

Then the tremors began, tiny vibrations running through every muscle fiber in Fox's body.

"Perhaps the planet is quaking."

It took him a while to realize he was wrong. It was not the planet that was shaking. It was not the Arwing's fault, either.

It was his own.

"It's cold. I'm cold."

Fox pulled his legs close to him and wrapped his arms around his body. A complete fortress.

"Why is it getting colder in here?" His jawbone chattered. He clenched it, frustrated with himself. "Perhaps it's nighttime outside. Maybe it gets very cold at night, wherever I am."

Not that he would have any way of telling.

He pulled his legs closer to himself, trying to trap body heat.

He shut his eyes. Weary.

---------------------------------------------------------

Then curiosity got the better of him and he opened one eye, looking for the computer screen in his cockpit.

It was still bright yellow.

The distress signal had not been received. Not yet.

"What is taking them so long," he moaned. Like it would somehow help the rest of the Star Fox crew find him. Like they could hear him.

He stared at the computer screen.

It was yellow. It flickered.

He shut his eye.

He opened his eye again.

The computer screen was yellow. It flickered.

"The radar. The radar has been destroyed."

He wouldn't be able to receive any transmissions.

…he wouldn't be able to make any transmissions.

"No."

He wouldn't be able to transmit anything.

Could he transmit a distress signal if there was nothing to transmit it by?

Did he need the radar to transmit the distress signal? Or not?

"No." Fox's hands went straight for the computer screen, hitting it with closed fists. It stung.

Nothing changed.

The radar's gone. The radar was gone. He wouldn't be able to transmit anything. Was the distress signal hooked up to the radar or was it an entirely different apparatus in itself? Wouldn't that make sense? Wouldn't it make sense if there was an emergency system that was a different radio and could only be used in emergencies and not the regular radar that was used for non-emergency situations? Why couldn't he remember?

Why couldn't he remember?

Shouldn't he know this?

"No," he shouted, "no, no, no."  
The computer screen was still yellow.

Nothing changed.

It flickered.

Nothing changed.

It still read: "Distress signal transmitted."

Nothing changed. Nothing had changed.

He pounded his fist on the screen, expecting some kind of answer. "But what does that even mean? Does this mean that the distress signal is being transmitted or that it was transmitted or that it hasn't been transmitted yet? What does it mean?"

The computer was still a comforting shade of yellow. It assured him that "distress signal transmitted". Whatever that meant.

Fox rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I'm just being paranoid."

It was hard not to be when one was confined to 16 cubic ft. of moveable space. It didn't help that it was completely dark outside.

And getting colder.

Fox smiled, in surrender.

"I'm going to freeze to death in here, aren't I."

Another uncanny feeling: fear.

Like he was trapped inside of his coffin.

Like he had been buried alive.

"I'm going to freeze to death in here before anyone finds me. I'm not going to get out of here alive."

The tremors came back, but this time they were not from cold.

"P-please," his voice could barely get out of his throat between sobs, "please, anyone, save me. Please, Peppy, come save me. Peppy, please."

Rocking forward.

Rocking backwards.

"Peppy, please, come save me. Save me, anyone, please, please--"

_He's six years old and _he can't sleep. It's not that late at night, but he's not able to sleep and he doesn't know why. He feels sticky and sweaty and that only makes it worse. The darkness making him feel lonely, the sound of the television going off in the distance making him feel isolated.

And he sees a picture of them.

(**the** picture of them, the one in all the newspapers)

And they're holding each other. And him. When he was just a baby.

And the picture is filmed over because he doesn't remember it so well.

White.

He doesn't remember them so well.

White space. And static.

He can't remember their faces. He can't remember how their faces looked anymore.

There are tears running from his open eyes now. He tries to stop them but he can't. Not even if he shuts them. Not even if he knits them together tight. Nothing works.

And he knows he was told to go to bed but he gets up and leaves his room anyway, runs down the hall into the kitchen, where Peppy is standing, holding a beer, dressed in wife-beaters and boxers.

His left shoulder is still bandaged up. Bloody. The wounds underneath that Fox wouldn't understand until he got older. Not until he was older and could understand what it was _exactly _that Venomese did to their prisoners of war.

And Peppy eyes him incredulously and says: "Didn't I tell you to go to bed?"

But he doesn't notice that Fox is crying. The kit buries his face in his arm. Choking.

The beer clinks when it's set down on the dining room table. Peppy drops to his knees, pulls the arm away from the kit's face. "Hey. What's the matter?"

"I… I…" can't even say it.

He wants to say he misses them.

He wants to say he needs them.

He wants to say he needs them to come home.

But he can't.

Peppy hugs him, holds him close.

Props Fox's head up on his bandaged shoulder.

Whispers: "Shhh, shhhhhh_hhhhhhhhhhh I understand. I know. I'm here._"

And the bandages on Peppy's shoulder are getting wetter and wetter and are probably uncomfortable, but it's Fox whose wounds are worse, who can't stop crying,

but,

for a moment, if he closes his eyes and burrows his head into the lapine's chest he can just

_pretend_

it's him

when Peppy starts rocking him and sings, softly:

Hush little baby don't say a word

Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird

And if that mockingbird don't sing

Papa's gonna buy you a new Arwing

And if that Arwing doesn't fly

You'll still be the best pilot in the sky

So hush little Fox-ie don't you cry

James and Vixy love you and so do I

He's asleep.

He's hit the R.E.M. cycle now, little eyeballs moving back and forth under his eyelids.

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_Shh, don't wake him. Doesn't he look cute like that?_

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with his arms wrapped around his legs, protectively. The fetus in the metal womb.

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descending

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descending muscular atonia.

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Inky black.

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And then, suddenly: stars.

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_Stars. _

_I can see stars. _

_I can see shapes in the stars. _

_Standing figures, men and women. _

_I know them._

_Everyone is a star. _

_Everyone I know is a star. _

_Some are at a distance. Some are closer to me._

_I see Slippy. _

_I see Falco._

_I see Bill Grey._

_I see Peppy._

_I see General Pepper._

"_Dad?" I ask. "Dad, where's Dad? Where's Mom?" _

_One star shines brighter than the others. Blue, but it's far away. _

_The 'sky' is not inky black anymore, it's more like blue. Like sky blue. _

_The star moves towards me, or maybe I am moving towards the star. _

_But I see that the star has a familiar face. _

_It is the face of my father. _

_The star is my father. _

"_Dad!"_

"_Son," the star speaks with my father's voice. The star is my father. _

_My father is smiling. _

_My father is smiling for me. _

_He is proud of me. _

"_You have been very brave." _

_My father is proud of me. _

"_I love you, son," _

_My father is proud of me. My father loves me. _

"_Come closer, son," the star says. _

_I comply. _

"_Find me, Fox," the star says. _

_I love my father. _

_I miss him. _

_Now I've found him again. _

"_I have been trying to find you for so long, Dad," _

_I begin to move towards him. _

"_I miss you so much." _

"_Everything's going to be all right," my father says. _

_But he's getting farther and farther away from me. _

_Where is he going?_

"_Dad?"_

_And I try harder to get to him but I lose him in the blue._

_I can no longer see him. _

"_Dad!" _

_Nothing._

"_Dad?" _

_Nothing. _

"_Where are you?" _

_Nothing. _

"_Dad! Dad? Why did you leave me? Dad?" _

"_Everything's going to be all right--"_

_And I can't see anything but blue._

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_And I feel dizzy, like I'm spinning. Spinning out of control.  
_

_And I can hear _**voices**: (Peppy? Falco? Slippy?)  
screaming his name over the comm. Link, screaming  
curses, cursing the enemy, cursing the situation, the  
computer screaming alarms and klaxons  
associated with mechanical failure,  
the loud thuds of n-bombs going  
off in the blue sky above, and  
he can feel it, _gravity,_  
and he's already  
falling down  
towards the  
icy expanse  
below  
him--

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